


Solo

by MUSEquera



Category: Muse
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-01
Updated: 2013-09-01
Packaged: 2017-12-25 07:27:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/950337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MUSEquera/pseuds/MUSEquera





	Solo

"I'm tired, love. Let’s just sleep, yeah?" he says with a perfunctory peck to my lips, and turns on his side facing away from me, wrapping the duvet right around himself. I stare open mouthed at the back of his head; those are words I'd never expected to hear from him—at least not for another twenty years or so. Feeling rejected, I feel tears stinging my eyes, and I wonder whether I’ve done something to bring this on—whether real or just a figment of his fertile and cracked imagination. 

I shake my head, frustrated with myself. Yes, he can be high maintenance, but I know I haven’t done anything to upset him, and he was fine all evening, his usual chatty, warped, random, adorable self. I guess he really is just tired, it has been a gruelling week, but that has never been an issue before. No matter how tired we are, we just aren’t able to keep our hands off one another. Until now, that is. 

Out of habit, I slide closer, slipping under the tucked-in covers and wrapping myself around him, burying my face in the back of his neck, hoping that the spicy, just-showered scent of his skin will soothe my disappointment and frustration. It only makes it worse, though. The familiar feeling of the sharp contours of his body against mine makes me want him even more, my body responding eagerly to his closeness.

With a heavy sigh, I let go of him and roll onto my back, one arm tucked under my head, my other hand idly tracing patterns on my chest while I listen to the huffy sound of his breath, willing myself to sleep, trying to ignore the demands of my straining cock. It’s no use, though. 

I want him so much it hurts. It’s bad enough on the odd nights when he’s not here, but yearning for him, not being able to touch him, when he’s only a few inches from me, warm and soft and so beautiful that my heart skips a beat whenever I look at him, is tantamount to torture.

I twitch restlessly, unable to settle, and throw the covers off me—they feel stifling as my body heats up, my skin too sensitised to bear their touch. My hand settles back on my chest, taking on a life of its own, fingertips stroking in patterns that are no longer random. Like homing pigeons, they seek my nipple, and I gasp at the first electric brush of skin on skin, my cock twitching eagerly on my belly.

“What are you doing?” I ask myself, and my brain answers snidely, “Getting ready to have a wank while I lie next to the love of my life. You have a problem with that?” I shrug. I guess I am really past caring, and if I’m going to do this I might as well enjoy it without the guilt. 

Both my hands are roaming my body now, pinpricks of sweat breaking on my skin as I tease myself; I'm too keyed up for a quick tug to bring me the relief that I need. My lips part in a silent moan as I imagine it's his fingers gliding lightly on my skin, clever fingers that know all the secrets of my body and can bring me to completion without ever straying between my legs.

It feels strange, this; I can feel the warmth of his body next to mine, I can smell his scent, but his eyes are not on me—yes, he likes to watch as I put on a show for him, the glorious blue of his eyes darkening with lust at the oh, so intimate spectacle of my unraveling, brought about by my own shameless hands for his pleasure.

Just the thought of him watching makes me rock hard, and I moan out loud, freezing in place when I hear the rustle of his body moving under the covers. The irony of the shame that fills me at the possibility of him waking to see me like this when I'm fantasising about him watching does not escape me, but I nevertheless breathe in relief as he just shifts onto his back and stills again, his breathing evening to his sleeping pattern. 

I roll my head towards him, unwilling—no, unable—to miss an opportunity to take in his improbable beauty. Only his closed eyes, dark lashes stark on his pale skin, and the messy crop of his hair peek above the covers, but it's enough to make my whole body ache for him. I bite my lip hard to resist the compulsion to touch him, and shift onto my side to remove myself from temptation, buzzing with need.

I'm done with teasing. I take myself in hand, gritting my teeth to stop myself from releasing the wanton moan building up deep in my throat. I pretend it's his slender, nimble, strong fingers wrapping around my cock, his long, soft thumb brushing my cockhead, and my legs scissor impatiently with a soft rustle of fabric on skin as I start to stroke myself slowly.

It's not enough. Before that thought has finished forming, I have brought my other hand to my mouth, fingers rubbing suggestively against my lips, just the way his do, and I allow myself to be swept into the fantasy, tongue darting out to tease the fingers, lips sucking gently on them before taking them in fully for a thorough, deliberate sucking until they are shiny and slick with my saliva.

I whine softly in anticipation as I reach behind me, sliding my fingers backwards between my cheeks towards my hole, just as he does it when he's in a teasing mood, leaving a rapidly cooling wet trail that makes the hair on my shins stand on end and my sac contract until my balls feel as hard and tight as beach pebbles. 

My hand stills on my cock and I stop breathing in concentration as the tip of my finger slowly breaks through, the myriad nerve endings firing pleasure messages that course through my body, fizzy and euphoric like the finest champagne. A second joins the first, and soon my hips are moving of their own accord, finding a rhythm between the resuming cadence of my hand on my cock and the increasing tempo of my fingers.

I miss his clever, supple fingers, my own blunt digits never able to come even close to the level of pleasure he is able to draw from me—he's been known to make me writhe until I come just by fingering me. My imagination will have to fill in the gaps, and it does so with gusto. It is his hand corkscrewing on my cock, his fingers moving inside me with deadly precision, his lips brushing my ear as they whisper filthy endearments.

My body responds to his imagined presence with predictable eagerness as I fuck his fist and impale myself on his fingers, skin flushed and slick with sweat, muscles tensing as pleasure swirls in ever tightening spirals inside me, my heartbeat speeding up until my chest constricts and my breathing becomes shallow and erratic. 

My efforts to be quiet are in vain; I am fast approaching the point of no return, and moans breach the seal of my lips as my body thrashes on the covers, desperately seeking that last minute increment in friction that will bring me the release I'm after. I groan in frustration, suspended on the knife edge of pleasure, chest heaving with strain and sweat pooling in the dips of my body, my toes curling as the pressure mounts painfully without relief in sight.

My whole body comes up in goosebumps at a barely there brush of lips between my shoulderblades, and before I have time to realise that it's not part of the fantasy, his hand gently holds my wrist and carefully tugs until I get the message and remove my fingers. I whimper at the empty feeling, but his warmth envelops me, subtly altering the balance, frustration leaching out of me like summer rain through sand.

I whisper his name, ending on a strangled gasp as my imaginings become reality, long fingers entering me with exquisite slowness and being removed just as slowly, a leisurely fucking that sets off a purring growl deep in my chest. My hand automatically resumes its stroking, matching his tempo, and soon I'm once again on the brink, my body ready to let go, but knowing instinctively that I'm no longer in command of it.

I hang on, waiting to be released, savouring every added exhilarating second, every cell in my body lighting up with the blissful fulfilment he brings me, drowning in the feelings he sparks in me with the faintest touch. It's like nothing else on this earth, being subject to him as he holds the reins of my pleasure, not to curb it, but to intensify it, taking me to new, breathtaking heights.

Just as I think I may die of it, I feel the warmth of his breath on my skin, his soft lips caressing my ear as he says, "Let go." It's all it takes. I arch like a strung bow, every fibre and tendon tightening with the cataclysmic release. Tears spring unbidden as a primal scream shreds my throat, my internal muscles clamping tight around his fingers and my world blanking out in ecstasy as I empty myself over our joined hands.

I lie panting harshly, shuddering with aftershocks, dimly aware of the slight discomfort as he carefully removes his fingers from my fluttering flesh, and of soft, gentle hands rolling me onto my back. I shiver as I feel his lips on my skin, his tongue lapping delicately at my softening, slightly chafed cock, and following the trail of come across my belly and up my chest.

Brushing away the tendrils of hair plastered damply to my forehead, he leans in to kiss my closed eyes, mopping up my tears with his lips, and my heart swells in my chest full of love for him. I open my eyes and smile up at him, "Thank you." His eyes darken, and he kisses me softly, whispering, "My pleasure." against my lips.


End file.
